Fat kid rules the world (7 page)

“Get your own,” he says.

I reach for a donut instead.

“You skipped the whole day, you know,” Dayle adds, as if he’s informing me of something. “I could totally tell Dad. Do you have any idea how embarrassing it was to have my senior sumo brother seen in public with that psycho guitar player?”

I pause with the donut halfway to my mouth. Immediately, I sense that something has changed. Curt has progressed from homeless trash to a psycho guitar player. And Dayle is trying to converse with me.

I put the donut down, and grab a plate and fork from the dish drainer. I stab one of his eggs and slide it onto my plate. “He
is
a psycho guitar player,” I say. “In fact, we almost got arrested today for breaking and entering … but I’m sure you wouldn’t want to hear about that.”

Dayle glares at me and I smile. I turn and carry my plate into the living room, grabbing the donut on my way out.
Fuck you
, I think, trying to stifle a grin.

FAT KID RULES THE WORLD
.

THURSDAY, A GIRL INTENTIONALLY
speaks to me for the first time. She stands next to me with her silky legs crossed, holding her books to her chest. She says, “So, do you really know Curt MacCrae?”

I should say, “No—who the hell does?” but instead I say, “Yeah. We’ve got a band.”

She giggles. The books slide and I try not to stare at her chest.

“I saw Curt play with Smack Metal Puppets once. He’s really good. Is it true he’s, like, twenty-one?”

I don’t know the answer, but I nod as if I do. She bites her lip.

“My friend thinks Curt will be on MTV someday. I said he wouldn’t sell out like that but she said it wouldn’t be selling out if he kept the intensity of his music. He’s real … authentic. You know?”

I do know. I also know there’s a response expected of me, but I can’t imagine what it is. I can’t talk because I’m terrified I’ll huff and she’ll laugh. I say nothing.

“Well, see you around,” she says.

“Yeah,” I say, watching her slide away from me. “See you around.”

THE NEXT TIME I SEE CURT
it’s by accident. I’m walking to the F train at Washington Square, daydreaming about the girl in the cafeteria, wondering if by any chance Dayle saw her talking to me. It’s Saturday and I’m coming back from a dentist appointment.

I’m happy because I’m thinking about the girl, but I’m bummed because Dayle was supposed to go to the dentist, too, but he wouldn’t. No big deal. Except I keep remembering how it was after Mom got sick when he was too little to ride the subway by himself. I’d hold his hand and put his token in the slot like a real big brother. That was a long time ago, before I caused him mortal embarrassment. Before he turned into a self-centered asshole.

We don’t talk about it,
ever
, but when Mom was dying and Dad had to spend all his time at the hospital, it was me and Dayle. Buddies. Pals. I swear to God he looked up to me. I don’t have any proof, but I remember the way he’d follow me around the apartment and try to get me to play basketball at the park. I was never good at sports, even when I was thin, but in those days I could still make it to the court and back.

Now Dad plays basketball with Dayle. Twice a week. And I invite him to the dentist’s office.
No wonder he hates me
….

Still, he could’ve come.

The whole thing makes me tired and I wish there were someplace to sit down. My flesh moves like silicone weights around my waist, arms, and legs, and I feel people’s eyes boring into me. I feel my body growing larger as they stare and can’t help thinking about the last time I went anywhere with Dayle. That was last week, right before I met Curt. We were walking together and Dayle was pissed because he had to walk really slowly.
As if that’s a crime
… Then there was this group of kids near the stairs.

I mentally rewrite the whole scene. Next time, when they laughed, I wouldn’t let them laugh at Dayle, too. I’d say something. I’d defend us…. I’d say, “Fuck off, morons.” Or else maybe I’d say, “Get a life.” No, wait. Those sound stupid. I try to think what a punk rock drummer would say.

I’m about to come up with the perfect retort when I hear this amazing voice filling the underground passage. There’s a guitar
grinding away and the voice is deep and tortured, filled with a rage that sounds real yet amazingly melodic. There’s something raw and familiar about it. Something I recognize. I round the corner and shuffle faster.

Sure enough. There he is.

Curt’s got his amp plugged into the floor socket and he’s intent on his guitar. He looks small and pale behind it, but he’s got a large crowd standing around listening. More people stop as he breaks into a cross between a wail and a shout and the guitar crescendos like a siren. It’s a primitive blending. Makes me think of wild animal orgies.

I try to listen for the things Curt told me about music. I hear some of them—the way the chords and the chorus don’t quite fit, and the rhythms sound angular and unbalanced. It’s intense, almost obscene, but women in power suits and men in horn-rimmed glasses are clapping enthusiastically, throwing money into the waiting bucket. Curt doesn’t thank them. He doesn’t even acknowledge them—just leans down and scoops out their dollar bills.

I stand there, a mute idiot agonizing over whether to speak. I decide I won’t say anything because I don’t want him to think I searched him out.
Good decision, right
? Don’t want him to think I need anything more than he’s already given me.

Curt sees me right away.

“Big T!” He’s about to start another song but stops and unplugs his guitar. Just like that. He picks up the bucket and shoves his amp awkwardly inside. Apparently, the show’s over. Moms with strollers and little old men linger, confused, before dispersing.

“Hey,” Curt says, jogging up to me. “I’ve been, you know, looking for you.”

Of course it’s a lie but the tips of my ears turn red anyway. Curt hands me the bucket and amp. “Carry this for me?” He flips his guitar onto his back while I glance around hoping everyone sees that I’m now carrying Curt’s amp. They don’t seem to care.

“You were good,” I say at last. Curt grins.

“Wait until we get your drum part in there, man. Oooh, yeah. Couldn’t you hear it? I hear it in my head … when I’m playing. You’ll be perfect, T. Perfect.”

He’s hyper today, dancing ahead of me, running back to let me catch up. A kid without his Ritalin. I wonder where we’re going.

“Curt,” I say at last. “I’m not so sure I can really, actually, well,
play
the drums.” I lick my teeth.

Curt misses a beat, but only one. His smile returns like a boomerang.

“No way, man,” he breathes. “All you gotta do is hit ’em hard. That’s all you gotta do.”

I want to argue. If I wasn’t such a pathetic stooge I
would
argue, but Curt keeps nodding to himself, so I let him. I shuffle along, grinning a clandestine grin while Curt darts ahead, a denizen ferret of the underground, huge black guitar slung over his shoulder.

WE END UP AT MY
apartment building. Curt’s suggestion.

Actually, he gets on the subway with me and follows me all the way home. We’re secret agents on the same mission, both pretending we don’t know where we’re going.
DOUBLE-O FAT KID AND CURT POWERS
. Minus the chicks. Every woman who gets on the subway migrates quickly to the opposite end.

We get out at the Second Avenue station, then walk to my apartment. It’s not far, but Curt has to walk real slow in order to pretend he’s not following me and I can tell it’s hard for him. After a while he gives up and walks ahead of me.

I hesitate when we reach the front steps, but Curt doesn’t. He waits for me to unlock the security door, then walks right inside like he belongs there. I’ve lived here seventeen years and still can’t do that. Curt even nods at my downstairs neighbor who’s standing in the hallway. She nods back but stares at me with disgust.
Skinny old hag
… I ignore her and carry the amp up the stairs.

I’m soaked in sweat when we get to the top. I’m breathing heavy and my T-shirt is clinging to my chest. Curt takes the bucket back while I open the door with my key. He slips inside as soon as the door is open, looks around, and nods in satisfaction at the empty apartment. I double over, catching my breath.

Curt doesn’t wait. He moves straight toward my room, takes off his guitar, props it against the wall, then pretends to be scanning my stuff while really he searches for his CDs. I watch from the hallway as he spots them on the floor next to my mattress, scoops them up, and drops them in his bucket. He looks relieved, then sheepish.

“You have got to … I mean, really you should do something about this room,” he says. “You’ve got nothing up here. No Big T trinkage or any such sort of thing. Where are the band posters? Where’s the graffiti?” He frowns disapprovingly, then turns his gaze to me. “And you
must
spice up those clothes, man. Not for the sake of spiciness per se, but simply because they’re not you. There’s no Big T in your big Ts.”

He’s cracked himself up and I stop long enough to stare at what I’m wearing. Bland tan pants. A T-shirt that reads
DOG DAYS OF SUMMER
.

“There’s not much in my size—” I start, but Curt interrupts.

“Screw that,” he says. “You make your size. You make your walls. It’s not about what’s out there.”

Then what’s it about
? I almost ask. But deep down I hope I already know.

Curt shakes his head. “Listen, man, I gotta take a nap, maybe
eat something. Very important. While I’m doing that you could work on this a bit, huh?”

He says it as if I’ve been shirking an important duty out of sheer laziness, then slips off his sneakers and curls up on my mattress. I’m glad I made my bed this morning because he’s filthy again, but I can’t tell him to move. He’s just made my life. Besides, I’m too busy staring at my room wondering what the hell I could possibly plaster on my walls.

CURT SLEEPS FOR HOURS
and I start to worry that he’s sick or something. I worry about it in a distracted sort of way because really I’m trying hard to come up with ideas.
Interior decorator, I am not

I walk into Dayle’s room and stare at his sports posters and team banners. It pisses me off that I have nothing to show for my life. If it’s all about what’s inside, like Curt says, then how come Dayle has everything? I should have something, shouldn’t I? Something resembling raw meat or splattered Fat Kid?

I go back in my room and dig around under my bed, but all I find is an old
Saturday Night Live
poster covered in dust balls. My shuffling wakes up Curt. He sits up with his eyes closed, then opens them and squints. It’s getting dark, so the room is dim and it takes him a moment to orient to his surroundings. I expect him to be disappointed, but he seems excited to find himself at my house.

“Oh, yeah,” he says, low under his breath. He glances at the
Saturday Night Live
poster and nods approvingly.

“What else?”

I shrug. “I don’t think I have anything else,” I say defensively. Curt’s eyes narrow.

“Everybody’s got something,” he mutters. “Here, put this CD on.” He crawls over to the bucket and takes out a CD. I put it on my stereo and crank it until he nods. The drumbeat is in-your-face relentless and it makes me want to move.

“All right then.”

Curt scans my room. He opens my closet, then my dresser and digs through both. He pulls out an old tartan blanket, my sneakers, a pair of tan pants, last week’s comic section, a black marker, my box of photos, a bottle of glue…. Midway through he pauses and asks if I’ve got something to eat. I pull a box of food from under my bed. He nods in satisfaction, and the work begins.

We work steady for a long time, and for once in my life I forget that I’m fat. I don’t entirely forget, but I mostly forget. And when I remember it’s because Curt is working it into a mural on my wall. He draws caricatures of naked women on my tan pants, then tacks them up along with every candy wrapper and box we empty. They make a giant trail exploding out of my pants.
FAT KID DIARRHEA
.

It’s my idea to tack the shoes to the ceiling. They’re sneakers Dad bought me for gym. I stuff them with Ho Hos and use red licorice in place of shoelaces. We cut up last week’s comic strips and glue them into a big square around the
Saturday Night Live
poster. It looks funky and I stare at it for five minutes while Curt digs through my photo box.

“Which of these do you want up, man?” he keeps asking. This one?
This one
? He’s pulling out pictures of Dad and Mom. One of Dayle and me wearing matching baseball caps, arms draped around each other’s shoulders. It’s one of my favorites. Curt puts it down and takes out an eight-by-ten of Dad in uniform and says I should put
it on the door. Suggests I blow it up poster size. I can tell he really likes it, but I shake my head.

“No pictures,” I say. It’s the first idea of Curt’s I’ve disagreed with. I want to agree, but I don’t think I can stand having the family we once were staring at me every day. Mom before Cancer, Dad before Retirement, me before Fat, and Dayle before … I look hard at the picture of Dayle. Dayle before
what
?

Curt shoves the loose pictures back in the box, but he takes the photo of Dad and slips it inside his shirt when he thinks I’m not looking. “Okay,” he says, “but the drum set goes over there.”

He points to a corner of my room and I try to imagine a drum set in that spot. I’m thinking I could handle that, and I’m just about to say as much when the front door creaks and Dad’s and Dayle’s voices drift down the hall. Suddenly Curt’s standing up, gathering his things.

“Seeing as there are plans and such, you know, or I’d stay, except for how it is.” Curt pushes his hair away from his face while his eyes dart about the room. They linger on my last candy bar.

“Want it?” I ask, but Curt shakes his head.

“Can’t,” he says emphatically. He takes a chewable Imodium out of his pocket, licks it, and tries to stick it to my mirror.